


Invasion

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: DISPATCH BOX [17]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ACD - Freeform, Canon Compliant, Declarations Of Love, M/M, Short & Sweet, Sweet Sherlock, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 08:38:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7094599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I should not have teased you,” Sherlock continued quietly. “I should have respected your… views on the subject.”</p><p>There is a brief but telling piece in the hidden compartment of Doctor Watson’s dispatch box that proves that, despite his claims to the contrary, Sherlock Holmes was a compassionate, caring, and insightful partner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invasion

“Saints preserve us!” I heard Mrs Hudson exclaim, followed by the distinct sound of her broom hitting something.  
  
“Mice,” Sherlock explained calmly, not missing a note as he played a rather lovely piece. The cooler weather was moving in—and so apparently were the mice—and we had the windows shut. Pity. The inhabitants of Baker Street didn’t know what they were missing.  
  
I did and do adore my private concerts. He finished and I clapped. “Who was that?” I inquired. I’m not exactly—all right, not even close to being—an expert on composers, but I do like to ask. Sometimes, if I hear a name associated with the pieces often enough, I eventually recognise compositions when we go out to concerts, and Sherlock always smiles at me in that affectionate way that he really shouldn’t in public.  
  
Once he surreptitiously took my hand in the darkened hall and my heart began to beat so fiercely that I could barely hear the music over the pounding in my ears.  
  
“Chopin,” he replied, smiling at me affectionately. I had been completely entranced, and now I was surprised.  
  
“Did he not compose chiefly for piano?” I ventured.  
  
Sherlock nodded proudly; some of his lessons were sticking. “I did the arrangement myself,” he admitted with some little pride. “Not all of his pieces work well for solo violin.”  
  
“You are a genius,” I told him fervently.  
  
He smiled at me, a bit wickedly now. “How do you feel about rewarding my genius?” he inquired. God, his expression—I was instantly undone—the few drinks that I had had had nothing to do with it. (As I write this, I am struck by the absurd but correct usage of the word ‘had’ three times in a row.)  
  
“You deserve _quite_ a reward,” I told him in all sincerity. “And I would be more than delighted to bestow such a reward upon you.”  
  
He pulled the violin out from under his chin. “That would be quite acceptable,” he agreed eagerly.  
  
I rose and we took the few steps required to meet…  
  
“What in heaven’s name is that?!”  
  
I admit it—here, in my private papers. It was me exclaiming thusly. I am ashamed of it now, but I was startled.  
  
[Sherlock’s distinct writing has interposed a comment: _No need to be ashamed. You were startled; that is all._ ]  
  
Sherlock glanced in the direction of my gaze, which was fixed upon the baseboard that ran under the windows that faced out over the street. “It is a mouse, John,” he reported, looking a bit wide-eyed at my exclamation.  
  
“What’s it doing here?”  
  
He gave me a bemused look. “It has probably escaped the ferociously-wielded broom of the indomitable Mrs Hudson,” he remarked facetiously.  
  
“Well, get rid of it!”  
  
Did my voice squeak a bit? Yes, it did.  
  
He gave me a peculiar look. “It’s just a mouse, John,” he said quietly. “They have moved into the house as the weather grows colder. This happens every year. You know that.”  
  
“Just get rid of it!” I insisted. I felt hot and cold at the same time.  
  
Giving me a peculiar look, he put down his instrument. “All right, old man,” he said genially. “Calm down.” He tipped his chin towards my chair. “Why don’t you sit down in your comfortable chair?” he suggested gently. “Shall I poke up the fire a bit?”  
  
“No!” I exclaimed. “That’s what they want—warmth.”  
  
“Who… the mice?” I was vaguely aware that he was pressing his thin fingers into my shoulders, directing me into my favourite chair. “Yes, that is precisely why they appear every autumn. That, and food. Mrs Hudson’s larder is extremely enticing. Now sit _down_!”  
  
I sat and drew my slippered feet up onto the cushions. The mouse, apparently unconcerned by our rather vehement discussion, had moved a few feet along the baseboard, its odious nose twitching as it sampled the air. Glancing at me again, Sherlock sighed and shook his head. “Shall I capture it?” he inquired.  
  
“Yes! Obviously!” I spat back, intentionally choosing one of his favourite imperatives.  
  
“All right. Please, John, calm yourself. I will attend to it.”  
  
The world has a better mousetrap than which it is aware, and that is Sherlock Holmes. With that efficient grace that I adore, he strode over to the windows and swept down upon it. He crouched, his dressing gown pooling around him.  
  
Thank goodness it was the blue one, not the mouse-coloured one.  
  
“Oh, what a sweet thing!” he exclaimed. “It’s all right. Do not be afraid,” he added, speaking in a low and calm tone into his cradled hands. “Goodness! What a bright-eyed little one,” he added affectionately. “Do you wish to see?”  
  
“NO!” I shouted. “Keep that thing away from me. Get rid of it. Bash its head in—use the coal shovel.”  
  
“Bash its head…? No, John. Look at it. Poor little thing—see how thin it is? It’s not a bit afraid, either,” he added, heading towards me, his hands cupped together.  
  
“I do not wish to see it,” I stated flatly.  
  
He halted and a frown formed on his angelic visage. “Why do you not… John, you surely are not afraid of a mouse?” He stated this in a voice of absolute incredulousness.  
  
“Afraid? No, of course not,” I blustered. Damn.  
  
“I did not think so. You have been in the army. You have been under enemy fire. You nearly died from your wounds. A tiny mouse—he is so very thin—would most certainly not incite fear in you.” He seemed to be speaking more to the _thing_ in his hands than to me. “However, Doctor Watson is not comfortable with your visit, wee one,” he informed it. “We must respect that.”  
  
Still, he remained as he was, inspecting the diminutive (and thankfully obscured from my sight) creature that he cradled in his large hands. “I suppose, then, that you would be opposed to me keeping it,” he commented, somewhat casually. Hopefully casual, I realised later.  
  
“Keeping… keeping it? Good Lord, of course not!” I blustered.  
  
“But it would be an excellent subject for a series of experiments I have been considering…” he attempted to explain, but he himself gave up, his voice dying down to nothing.  
  
“No! No keeping it. No experiments. Just get that thing out of here!” I commanded.  
  
Sherlock always responds well to my commands. Well, most of them. This one, thankfully, he obeyed with a careless shrug that I found endearing and irritating at the same time.  
  
“Very well,” he sighed. “Come along, sweet thing. I shall bring you down the street to the stables. There’s plenty of lovely warm hay in which to sleep and more than enough spilled feed to see you through the winter.” He shifted his grip so the creature was in just one of his hands; I could see how he carefully cradled the thing. “I shall return shortly. Will you let me back in?” he requested.  
  
I nodded, not really at that point absorbing his request. I watched, open-mouthed, as he strode out of our rooms. I heard him descend quietly to the ground floor, and then the sound of the street door opening and shutting. Instantly I sprang up and followed.  
  
I stood at the street door for several minutes, listening intently. I was aware that I was trembling; that the sweat beaded on my forehead. Finally, there was his swift, unique knock. I opened the door gratefully. He beamed at me.  
  
“It’s all right. I have found it a lovely new home,” he told me sweetly. “Shall we go back upstairs? I should like a wee dram, if you are willing to pour.”  
  
I was more than delighted to do so, as it gave me an excuse to pour myself two (or possibly three) fingers of the excellent Scotch that I had been enjoying (a gift from a grateful client—it was surprising how many of them did that—did they all think that the great detective and I were both hard drinkers?). I handed him his glass and sat down—drawing up my feet again. He sat down across from me and sipped from his glass.  
  
For some reason it occurred to me for the first time that he had gone out and down the street in his dressing gown and slippers.  
  
“It’s very late,” he interjected, following my internal musing as he does. “No one saw me but our small friend and a few sleepy horses.” He took a sip of his drink and I took a large swallow (a few) from mine. He cocked his head and peered at me. “I am sorry, John,” he finally offered.  
  
“Oh?” I managed.  
  
“I truly did not intend to cause you distress. I forget that my sensibilities regarding certain things can be a bit… unusual.”  
  
And then the absurdity hit me. I had to explain. “Goodness! It was not you and your sensibilities at all, my darling!” I exclaimed. “I must apologise for my completely inexcusable behaviour.”  
  
He looked at me thoughtfully, then down at his glass, swirling its contents with one graceful hand. “No, John,” he finally remarked quietly. “It needs no excuse.”  
  
I gave him a hard look. What did he mean?  
  
“I should not have teased you,” he continued quietly. “I should have respected your… views on the subject.”  
  
I sat, open-mouthed, and waited for him to explicate further.  
  
“John,” he finally began, his eyes down. “I am aware that some of your… many of your… _most_ of your experiences are completely beyond my understanding. You were a soldier, thousands of miles from England, experiencing atrocities first-hand that most people cannot fathom in their most horrific dreams.”  
  
I nodded, dumb.  
  
“I suspected as much. Mice… probably other, more unpleasant creatures? Insects? They tortured you. Invaded your… wherever it was. Did you have a bed? I pray that at least you were raised up off the ground. No, you do not have to tell me if you do not wish to. But the circumstances were horrific, were they not?”  
  
“Yes,” I replied slowly. “It was not perhaps just—or only—mice. It was the hospitals… they were overrun with all sorts of pests. Disgusting creatures with hundreds of legs. They were into everything. Fresh sheets; bandages. Even food—all filthy with droppings and worse. The worst was the rats…” I found that I could not go on.  
  
“Please, John, do not revisit it if it gives you so much pain.”  
  
“It is odd, I suppose, to welcome the cobra—but at least they kept the pestilence under control to some extent.” I paused, and I found that my face was wet. He suddenly leapt up from his chair and came over to mine. He slammed his glass down on the small table next to me and frowned—in that way that only angels frown. “I am so very sorry, John,” he whispered, his long, delicate fingers stroking my cheek. “I apologise for my thoughtlessness. You cannot bear mice and creatures of that ilk. There is no shame in that, my love. I am just grateful that I am here to attend to such matters. It does not matter one whit to me.”  
  
He gazed down on me, then bent and gently drew my (empty) glass from my hand, placing it on the table next to his. He kissed my forehead. “Come to bed, John,” he whispered. “I promise that I will never tease nor even mention the subject again.” He reached out his hands and pulled me up.  
  
That night we slept in my bed, and I felt the comforting presence of his sinewy arm around me the entire night.  
  
[Sherlock has added a note: _John, I realise that you have recorded this particular incident under duress. For some reason you feel the need to capture what you were feeling. I admit that I do not understand that need, but please know that I do not respect you one iota less. After what you have experienced, a fear of creatures such as mice is not just understandable but justifiable and reasonable. In future, I promise you that I will remove all offending creatures without censure or rebuff, and then I will endeavour to comfort you in the manner that you so often comfort me. Is that amenable?_  
  
_Oh, and Mrs Hudson would be fine with that as well, would she not?_  
  
_I do love and respect you._ ]  
  



End file.
